Читать книгу The Last Chance: A Tale of the Golden West онлайн

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Such a paradise as home (blessed place and blessed word) appeared to the far-travelled father and husband! We pass over the mutual greetings of wife and husband—matters too sacred for descriptive analysis—‘with whose joy the stranger intermeddleth not.’ That they ‘kissed again with tears,’ on one side at any rate, may be conceded. All had gone well during the house-father’s absence. Hector had been lame for a week—which had led to anxiety. No cause could be assigned; but the shoeing smith was suspected of a tap with his hammer, as a hint to stand still. He declined to confess, but relieved his mind by abusing Hector as the most impatient, troublesome old wretch whose leg he had ever lifted. Anyhow, he was quite well again, and ‘flasher than ever’—this was the second son’s contribution to the case.

Next morning, in the pre-breakfast stroll, the springing crops—the wide alluvial flats—the lucerne fields—the dairy herd—the stud of well-bred horses—all appealed to the wanderer’s tastes and early associations; the delightful country attributes of a long-held fertile ssss1 estate—inherited by the present proprietor. The Commissioner was indeed but a tenant, dwelling in the ‘barton,’ so to speak, in old English term—the manor was the Squire’s by inheritance and occupation since he had come of age. A new house had been built soon after the auspicious occasion of his marriage; while, on the Commissioner’s arrival in the district, the roomy, old-fashioned cottage, with large rambling garden and aged orchard, had been gladly rented by him. For a man in his position, no more suitable place could have been found. The families became fast friends, and, what is more to the purpose, remained so for the whole decade during which the Commissioner’s official duties attached him to the district. The green fields and pastures were as much his as their owner’s, in the sense that a woodland scene belongs to him who can appreciate the lovely, verdant landscape. In earliest spring—in the bracing, but never severe winter of the South land—amid evergreen forests and running streams, even in the torrid summer, when the fresh, dry air has no enervating tendency—in the still dreamy autumn, ere yet the first hint of frost has shown itself in the yellowing oaks and elms—children they of the far north home-land—how good was the outlook! The Commissioner loved these demarcations of the changing year. In the river, which divided the great meadows from the estate of a neighbouring potentate, his boys learned to swim, and, both in the early summer morn and lingering eve, were eager to plunge into its cool depths, or unwilling ssss1 to return in time for the evening meal, to race and splash over the pebbly shallows. There were well-grassed paddocks for their ponies as well as for Hector and Paris, and their father’s hackney. They established also, it may be easily surmised, trial races and contests with the sons of the house, and by degrees developed the equine association, which helped them notably in the aftertime of polo, hunting, and four-in-hand driving—when such pastimes and practice became suitable to their age and position.